It's A Cravat, Mother Fucker
by Tilea
Summary: Edgeworth shows a much more badass side of himself in a fistfight. Written for the PW Anonymous Kink Meme.


**It's A Cravat, Mother Fucker**

(Written as a prompt fill for the Phoenix Wright Anonymous Kink Meme. Enjoy!)

**Disclaimer: **Don't own Ace Attorney or its characters. If I did, AAI2 would be coming to the west, no doubt about it!

"I still cannot figure out why you have insisted on coming along, Miles Edgeworth."

They had just stepped through the front doors of the popular bar/night club when Franziska decided to debate him on the issue once again, despite the fact that he was already present and would not be turning around to leave now. Sure, the music was already getting on his nerves as well as hers, but they would both bear it for different reasons.

"I don't need your help to investigate this dump," Franziska proclaimed, her whip held firmly in hand as several heads turned to observe the new arrivals… the very attractive new arrivals… who were WAY over-dressed for a place like this!

"I never said you did," replied Edgeworth, scanning their dimly-lit, smoky surroundings while he spoke. The main source of light in this place were those over the dance floor, where several people ambled about like morons to the infernal noise the DJ was cranking through the obnoxiously-massive sound system. "I merely accompanied you to keep away the riffraff while you work."

"Hmph! I can take care of myself just fine, you foolishly overprotective man!" Franziska snapped, looking outwardly perturbed. However, this was the end of her half-hearted protest, as if she simply wanted to reaffirm her independence to her 'boyfriend'.

She'd never liked using that word… It sounded so immature, but what else was she to call him? Their relationship had only recently taken a turn from just close friends, but they had not yet done much exploration into the more intimate and physical aspects of romance. A couple of dinner dates, light kisses, and hand-holding when no one was watching was about the extent of it, and the nature of their relationship wasn't exactly public knowledge.

Regardless, if she was honest with herself, she didn't mind having him here with her, if not for protection but for some company. She didn't exactly care for being 'hit on' anyway, so perhaps his presence would deter these drunk slobs from approaching her or letting their hands wander.

The pair of prosecutors approached the hostess, and after Franziska had given her identity and purpose, they were allowed in without having to pay the entry fee. Miles allowed the German woman to lead the way, staying out of her way while she worked but keeping close enough to alert all who would try that Franziska was not here alone to be messed with, and to shoot a rather intimidating glare at any man who stared for too long.

Unfortunately, some people were immune to that look of his, either too drunk to care or underestimating the pristinely dressed, refined prosecutor and passing off his presence as less than a threat.

The confrontation began when Franziska had to bend down to pick up a slip of paper lying on the floor near the area she was examining. There was a group of biker types standing nearby, smoking cigarettes and drinking heavily, and one of them decided it would be entertaining to step over toward the two prosecutors. Ignoring Miles' warning look, he made a move to take a hold of Franziska's backside while she was bending down, obviously trying to look manly in front of his buddies.

This, naturally, did not go over well with Miles, who suddenly displayed catlike reflexes, reaching out to grab the larger man's wrist in a vice grip, stopping his hand from making contact. Noticing the commotion, Franziska quickly stood up and turned around, looking mortified. "What the-!"

"Ah! You fucker!" the offending man exclaimed, wrenching his wrist away from the pinching hold Miles had on him, pain shooting up his arm as the prosecutor placed his fingers in a very precise spot in order to press down on his tendons.

"Didn't your mother teach you to keep your hands to yourself?" Miles asked, that intimidating glare still fixed on his face.

The tattooed man began to laugh, recovering quickly from what he considered to be a lucky move. "What? It's not like you were paying any attention to her, just standin' there looking at everyone like some prissy poodle having a bad fur day." The other men standing by started to laugh at this mocking comment.

Miles didn't even seem fazed by the laughter and mockery. In fact, a slight smirk made its way onto his lips. "Forgive me… but I can't help noticing that there are no women accompanying any of you. Might I suggest a shower, some toothpaste, and a lesson in civil human behavior?"

Obviously, the man's lack of self-control did not exclude a short fuse, because he was suddenly furious. "You wanna' go at it, punk? I'll bash your little pretty-boy face in!"

"I would love to see you try," Miles replied, still smirking with his arms folded across his chest. He was perfectly composed, hardly even looking like he intended to defend himself were this asshole to take a swing at him. However, when the other man gave a furious growl and threw a punch aimed directly for his face, Miles side-stepped with easy.

"You little-!" The enraged drunk threw another punch, but he was again dodged, and this time, the prosecutor countered. With a speed and precision no one here – even Franziska – expected of him, his right hand flew out, knuckles connecting hard with the jaw of the offender. A loud 'CRACK' accompanied the action, and the man was instantly down on the floor, blood beginning to seep from his mouth, probably thanks to a bitten tongue or missing teeth.

Franziska and the other men watched in shock as Miles calmly shook out his hand after the impact. He then turned to look at the other men, as if daring them to try anything. Most intelligent people would have walked away and left well enough alone, but it seemed he wasn't really dealing with intelligent – or sober – people.

"Fucking fag!"

"I'm gonna' take that little frilly napkin around your neck and strangle you with it, Mother Fucker!"

Three men were now coming at him. The second speaker was the first to attack, making a grab for the aforementioned accessory. Miles reached up and seized his hand, roughly twisting his wrist until he heard it pop loudly, causing the man to shout in pain and freeze. Keeping his grip firmly in place, Miles leaned in closer to his second opponent of the night, as calm and cool as ever.

"It's a cravat, Mother Fucker." And with those mocking words, he yanked down on the man's arm and brought his knee up at the same time, driving it hard into the biker's stomach. This knocked the wind right out of him, and he joined his friend on the floor.

Miles was now down to two opponents, and they did not take the hint. The first threw a poorly-aimed punch, which Edgeworth easily dodged and then took a hold of the arm that had just been thrust at him. Using his entire body for leverage, Miles swung the much bulkier man around right into a nearby table, not even watching as he crashed right through it and fell into a mess of splintered wood, metal, and broken glass.

The last contender had hoped to get a shot in while Miles was turned around, but he failed epically. Miles ducked the fist and then came right back up, his knuckles cleanly meeting with the other man's face and instantly shattering his nose. Blood erupted from the smashed cartilage and the defeated man fell backward, hitting his head on the wall on his way to the floor.

During the fight, a crowd had gathered, and they now cheered and applauded the victor of the one-on-four match, hooting and hollering while Miles retrieved a napkin from another nearby table. He wiped the blood from his right hand, and then dropped the soiled napkin on the man whose blood with which it was now stained. He then turned to face Franziska, his signature half-smirk still resting comfortably on his lips. He hadn't even broken a sweat, for each man had been taken out with one carefully-executed action.

Franziska was momentarily stunned, having never – in all the years they'd known one another – seen Miles in a fight, much less witness him deck four much larger men with little to no effort whatsoever. She stood there in silence for several seconds, and then grasped for her own composure, clearing her throat and putting on that haughty expression she was normally seen wearing. "Hmph… I didn't need your help, you know," she stated, trying to pretend she wasn't impressed. "I could have taught those pigs a lesson on my own."

"Heh…" Edgeworth smiled at her, walking forward and placing his left hand on her shoulder. "Yes, well… I thought it appropriate to teach those meatheads a lesson in the only language they understand. Now, come on… You can come back and finish your investigation another time; I doubt it will be effective to work around four unconscious thugs."

Franziska tried to frown, but she couldn't. At that point, she just gave up and offered him that little smile he always loved to see, but rarely had the opportunity to. "Ah… Very well, Miles Edgeworth," she said, reaching up to take a hold of his arm in proper escort fashion. "Besides, regardless of whether or not I needed your assistance, I do believe you deserve a reward for your efforts."

Miles caught that little glint in her normally stern blue-gray eyes, and he felt his heart begin to beat a little faster, something not even that fight had managed to do to him. Unable to hide his small smile even if he'd wanted to, he turned to lead Franziska away from the crowd and toward the exit.


End file.
